Sometime in the still part of the night which comes after midnight,Jean woke slowly from dreaming of the old days that had been so vivid in her mind when she went to sleep.Just at first she did not know what it was that awakened her,though her eyes were open and fixed upon the lighted square of the window.She knew that she was in her room at the Lazy A,but just at first it seemed to her that she was there because she had always been sleeping in that room.
She sighed and turned her face away from the moonlight,and closed her eyes again contentedly.
Half dreaming she opened them again and stared up at the low ceiling.Somewhere in the house she heard footsteps.Very slowly she wakened enough to listen.
They were footsteps,--the heavy,measured tread of some man.They were in the room that had been her father's bedroom,and at first they seemed perfectly natural and right;they seemed to be her dad's footsteps,and she wondered mildly what he was doing,up at that time of night.
The footsteps passed from there into the kitchen and stopped in the corner where stood the old-fashioned cupboard with perforated tin panels in the doors and at the sides,and the little drawers at the top,--the kind that old people call a "safe."She heard a drawer pulled out.Without giving any conscious thought to it,she knew which drawer it was;it was the one next the wall,--the one that did not pull out straight,and so had to be jerked out.What was her dad .
Jean thrilled then with a tremor of fear.She had wakened fully enough to remember.That was not her dad,out there in the kitchen.She did not know who it was;it was some strange man prowling through the house,hunting for something.She felt again the tremor of fear that is the heritage of womanhood alone in the dark.She pulled the Navajo blanket up to her ears with the instinct of the woman to hide,because she is not strong enough to face and fight the danger that comes in the dark.She listened to the sound of that drawer being pushed back,and the other drawer being pulled out,and she shivered under the blanket.
Then she reached out her hand and got hold of her six-shooter which she had laid down unthinkingly upon a chair near the couch.She wondered if she had locked the outside door when she came in.She could not remember having done so;probably she had not,since it is not the habit of honest ranch-dwellers to lock their doors at night.She wanted to get up and see,and fasten it somehow;but she was afraid the man out there might hear her.As it was,she reasoned nervously with herself,he probably did not suspect that there was any one in the house.It was an empty house.And unless he had seen Pard in the closed stall.She wondered if he had heard Pard there,and had investigated and found him.She wondered if he would come into this room.She remembered how securely she had nailed up the door from the kitchen,and she breathed freer.
She remembered also that she had her gun,there under her hand.She closed her trembling fingers on the familiar grip of it,and the feel of it comforted her and steadied her.
Yet she had no desire,no slightest impulse to get up and see who was there.She was careful not to move,except to cover the doorway to the kitchen with her gun.
After a few minutes the man came and tried the door,and Jean lifted herself cautiously upon her elbow and waited in grim desperation.If he forced that door open,if he came in,she certainly would shoot;and if she shot,--well,you remember the fate of that hawk on the wing.
The man did not force the door open,which was perhaps the luckiest thing that ever happened to him.He fussed there until he must have made sure that it was fastened firmly upon the inside,and then he left it and went into what had been the living-room.Jean did not move from her half-sitting position,nor did she change the aim of her gun.He might come back and try again.
She heard him moving about in the living-room.
